Texas Architect July/August 2013: Light
Sketches that bring sunlight and moonlight into spaces in creative, playful ways; otherworldly experiments in color centered on the early morning and evening skies; the construction of shade for people and plants; an oasis of densely planted, colorful cacti in the desert; and the benefits of daylight for work and study — this issue is about natural light and design. The projects featured illustrate a range of artistic and functional expressions where light is essential to the experience of each space.
Essay Finding the Light by Michael Malone, AIA T he freshman architecture sequence at Auburn University, where I was an undergraduate in the 1970s, was largely taught by recent graduates of high-profile Northeastern universities. Many of these instructors and assistant professors had been educated in places replete with examples of the work of Louis Kahn, who was then well on his way to deification, having died just a few years earlier. Some of them had attended lectures by Kahn; others had actually been students of his. All of them had been to Yale to see his Art Gallery and Center for British Art buildings. They ‘got’ light. They referred to it like it was a fact of life and as though we should all ‘get it’ too. Many of my peers did (or at least they affected they did), but I did not. As embarrassing as it is to admit now, when I first went to the architecture library to study Kahn’s work, the images left me a little cold. All the photos looked dark and shadowy. I did not know that this effect was his exact goal. I had not found the light, let alone the silence. That day, I learned not only the importance of the way light enters the space, but also what it does once it gets there. As first-year architecture students, my studiomates and I worked on basic composition and the manipulation of forms. We performed many shade and shadow studies that involved drafting patterns of light cast onto simple forms and learning about how light affected various volumes. For me, these exercises were unpleasant and troubleWright used the great lantern, centered over the sanctuary at the Annie Pfeiffer Chapel, to bring light into the heart of the space — encouraging the occupants to gaze to heaven. It was this remarkable building that gave an understanding of architectural light to the author who took this photo in March of 1978. some, but at least they were easy to understand — light as palpable substance was not. Perhaps it was my background or my lack of exposure to strong examples of architecture designed with light as a key element, but I just didn’t get it. I’ve always been a bit slow and dull. I grew up in a family of engineers and contractors, so I could be forgiven for not coming to an easy understanding of conceptual ideas such as space, light, and transparency (both literal and phenomenal). At least, I could be forgiven by everyone but my teachers. I was dangerously close to being one of those kids who didn’t get invited back for their second year. Somehow, I made it through that period, but my hold on my major field of study was tenuous. In 1978, during my sophomore year of architecture school, I discovered what all those folks were talking about. It happened in one revelatory, lightning bolt-like, aha! moment. I was on a spring break trip to Florida when one of my friends (a non-architect) suggested we go to Lakeland to see Florida Southern College (FSC), with its many buildings designed by Frank Lloyd Wright. Knowing I was studying architecture, he thought I’d enjoy it, so after a day of skydiving, we went. It was the first time I’d ever seen a Frank Lloyd Wright building, let alone a whole campus of them, and it had the expected impact on me. Wright was out of fashion. However, as was the case for most incoming architecture students, he was the only architect I knew, so it was a shock to hear he was not highly regarded in the academy. Modern architecture was under assault by the predominance of postmodernism, and Wright was lost in discussions of context and architectural language. According to my professors, his ideas and work seemed quaint and personal, not really applicable to the world we were living in at that time. FSC was a weird and wonderful place, distinctively beautiful and dynamic in its composition and organization. The Wright buildings, made of cast-in-place concrete and his unique textile blocks, were low and spare. Finished all in white, the buildings hugged the ground and were connected by covered esplanades. The centerpiece of the campus — one of its earliest buildings as well as its most vertical element — was the Annie Pfeiffer Chapel. A typically inventive Wright composition, the chapel was composed of a hexagonal base with a soaring lantern that sat directly over the seating area 7/8 2013 Texas Architect 19